


The Boston Coffee Party

by ChutJeDors



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (let's not think about it too much), Accidental Chaos Creature Peter, Coffee Addict Tony Stark, Crack, Gen, MCU that we deserved, Peter Parker is Trying His Best, Steve Rogers/Coca cola, Team as Family, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, everyone: Steve Sucks, team living like it's 2012 but somehow post-ultron avengers are there?, this might be a tough read for coffee addicts, warnings: capri sun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29081496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChutJeDors/pseuds/ChutJeDors
Summary: “We are getting rid of caffeine,” Tony says, leaving no room for argument in his words.Everyone stares at him in confused silence, until Sam lifts a hand.“So. Why?” he asks, and Tony accepts it as a legitimate, proper question.“Because Peter drank half a cup of my coffee leftovers, and is currently in a war against the bots, my blender, and Capri Sun.”In which Peter drinks Tony's coffee, and this has consequences. Bad consequences. Consequences Tony certainly wishes weren't there.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 139





	The Boston Coffee Party

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this oneshot a year ago out of need to occasionally escape from my longer irondad fic [Guidelines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860079). Then things happened and it took me a while to finish this, but here it is! 8k of crack, which where I truly feel at home.
> 
> Infinity war and Endgame have never happened, Civil war might've happened but who knows about that either? I don't. I'm just here for that sweet domestic 2012 Team as Family vibe. But naturally everyone is there (except for Clint, who has a farm? and Thor, who just... isn't there. Who knows. He's an alien, guys, he has places to be.)
> 
> Betaed by my lovely friend and beta Daisy. However, we only know British English, so some spelling errors/inappropriate word usages might be littered along the way. As well as cultural things. If you notice something awfully un-American, do point it out! Hope you enjoy the read!

_“Boss,”_ F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice wakes Tony up, and he blinks at the time his A.I. helpfully projects on the wall in unfairly large numbers. Despite the no-glasses friendly display, the digital clock is still blurry, but Tony thinks he can make out a five and a nine — in that order — and after he’s sat up and rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment, his sight clarifies enough for him to be sure; it is indeed a five and a nine, indeed in that order, and that in itself is enough to confuse him.

“Yyeah-hhaaw?” he asks through a yawn, glancing at the empty spot next to him as he, out of habit, rubs at his chest where the arc reactor used to be; Pepper is in Beijing, and her absence is both awesome and scary. Awesome, because now Tony is able to do whatever he wants, and scary, because _now Tony is able to do whatever he wants._

_“There is a situation in the workshop.”_

“Yeah?” Tony contemplates just turning over and ignoring whatever the situation is, but at the same time F.R.I.D.A.Y. wouldn’t have woken him up if it wasn’t something at least a little bit important.

_“I’m… unsure how to explain it.”_

“Unsureness? That doesn’t exist in your code,” Tony frowns, and starts moving, reaching for his sleek prototype of a phone that could — _“HYPOTHETICALLY, Pep”_ — kill half of Denmark and cook medium eggs at the same time. With the device in hand, he shifts to sit on the edge of the bed, his mind going through a few dozen reasons that could make his A.I. display unsureness — _and_ wake him up at five. The most prominent, and not an entirely unlikely one of those, is that someone has broken into the Avengers Compound and is currently messing with her code. His thumb hovers over the Avengers call button that is prominent on the screen. 

_“Mr. Parker is… in trouble?”_ there’s a questioning note to F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice, and those words alone are enough to catapult Tony across the floor and out of the room, no regards going towards changing out of his black tank top and sleeping slacks.

“Trouble?” he calls as he starts hurrying towards the workshop. The living quarters of the Compound look empty with everyone most likely sleeping — or playing Uno in Steve’s quarters — but Tony’s definitely not above waking them up if someone is messing with his A.I. _and_ giving his kid trouble. 

Peter should be sleeping anyway; when the kid got permission for staying at the Compound for a few weeks during summer, both Tony and Peter swore to their respective guardians — because let's face it, that's exactly what Pepper is, in the end — that they’d keep to a regular sleeping schedule. So, him being awake at _five_ in the morning, in the workshop, and in _trouble?_ Tony doesn’t like those words. He’d rather that the combination of words didn’t even _exist._

It takes a painfully long time for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to answer, and with his trepidation increasing, Tony slides through the empty corridors in his socks with a speed that rivals him in the suit.

_“He seems to be in dire need for help,”_ the A.I. finally decides, just as the workshop door is in sight, and Tony curses, crashing his way into the lab with his thumb readily hovering above the call button — screw everybody sleeping, screw the Uno game, Tony’s kid needs help—

The stench of something brutal and _sugary_ punches him in the face, wiping his mind empty as he skids to an abrupt stop in the doorway. For a moment he's unable to do anything but reel in the smell that penetrates his nostrils, violently crawling up his nose and nearly making his eyes water.

Blinking wetly several times in a row, he grabs the door frame (with one hand) to steady himself and forces his attention on what he’s seeing, mentally fighting through the bone-breaking reek of sugar.

White masses of _webs_ are scattered on one side of the lab, covering half of the walls and the equipment. He can barely make out Dum-E and U, huddling behind a barricade made of tables. They're somehow devoid of webs, and making a series of excited beeps that usually mean they are up to something hazardous and dangerous. 

Still taking in the state of _that_ side of the workshop — oh no, is that an Iron Man suit covered in webbing? Oh God, it takes ages to come off — Tony's gaze slowly moves over to the one person standing on the other side of the room.

“M-m-m-m-mr. S-S-S-Stark!” Peter calls happily, staring at him with a delighted and somewhat manic expression, bloodshot eyes, and a broad but absent smile on his face. Cold terror immediately washes over Tony.

Peter is violently shaking, so much that as he tries to form more words, it seems near impossible. As Tony watches, his body goes through a couple of forceful jerks - his way of moving resembling that of a very, very restless squirrel.

Tony stares. His mind is currently conjuring up at least fifty deadly reasons that include full-body shaking, stuttering, and squirrel-like behavior. This is serious, this could be something _deadly._

He fixes his hold of his phone, which had started slipping the moment he was barrelled by the ugly, sweet stench. Upon further thinking, is it the air? Is there— is there _gas_ in here?? 

With a jerk, he starts lifting his free arm to cover his mouth and nose, and hovers his thumb over the call button again. God, what if it's already affecting him as well? The vents should be secure against gas attacks, though, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. hasn't mentioned anything either, but if she's compromised… 

Just as he is about to press on the button, Peter lifts a vigorously vibrating arm, and Tony notices the web-shooters attached to his wrists.

“W-w-w-web g-g-grrenade!!” the kid yells, and as requested, a web grenade blasts out of the shooter. Tony watches with bewilderment as it sails through the air, barely missing the bots, before exploding against the fridge behind them. Both Dum-E and U let out alarmed, if somewhat thrilled shrieks.

Tony’s brain - that usually manages to process through a hundred things at once - now seems to be capable of barely digesting one; as such he doesn’t have time to react before U lifts his claw, and behold, Tony’s— Tony’s extra powered, hyper-effective _blender_ is taped to it with duct tape, the lid missing, held in an upright position so that the liquid — _liquid??_ — inside won’t spill. That is, until U starts moving, and the machine begins lowering into a near vertical position in a very threatening manner.

Tony forgets about the possible gas-thing for a moment, because oh, oh, _oh no._

“I-i-i-inc-c-c-coming!!” Peter shrieks and ducks behind one of Tony's suits that is currently a work in process, and Tony watches with augmenting horror as Dum-E jabs at the blender, hitting the ON/OFF-button.

The blender starts whirring. U gleefully points it in Peter’s direction, and in a terrifying example of why lids are a life-saver, the liquid explodes over the room, coating the webs and the walls in its sugary stench. Some of it splatters against Tony, who is conveniently standing within the liquid's range, and the smell from before _triples._

_Capri Sun,_ Tony’s subconsciousness supplies into the shocked emptiness of his thoughts. _Dum-E is holding a container of Capri Sun. They’re making fruit punch explode from my blender._

“A-a-a-a-aww,” Peter jumps out from his hiding place, vibrating from head to toe. “S-s-s-still n-needs w-w-w-work, g-g-guys.”

“Parker,” Tony starts slowly, because what. What. What the fuck. What the fuck is going on. “Explain.”

A drop of Capri Sun drips on the floor from his beard.

“I-i-it’s a-a-a w-w-w-wwwaaar,” Peter announces with joy, and jumps onto the ceiling. From there he bolts on one of the tables, but his foot catches on the juice that covers its surface. Tony doesn't have time to react before the kid is slipping, crashing on the ground in a way that makes Tony wince. 

In a matter of seconds, Peter is back on his shaky feet, pointing his shooters at the bots again.

“C-c-c-c-counterat-t-t- _tack!!”_ he hollers, and the long string of web that comes flying out hits nowhere near the bots, instead covering two of Tony’s hologram projectors. Peter’s aim has obviously been destroyed by the wobbling of his arm, and Tony is starting to see why the workshop is the way it is.

_“Kid,”_ he says urgently, and Peter turns to him with glinting eyes and flurry hands suddenly all over the place.

“I-I-I-I w-w-w-wasn’t s-s-sleeping-ng s-s-s-so I-I c-c-c-came d-down h-h-h-h-here,” Peter trills through the shakes in a way that _must_ be painful. Heart hammering in his throat, Tony adds a couple of other deadly reasons than gas to his list. It could be a fever. Deadly low blood sugar. A seizure. Poison. Remote mind control. _A sugar high??_

“A-a-a-and—” Peter continues, then suddenly he’s on the ceiling again, his head making jerking motions. In a blur he’s moved onto the wall, and against the Iron Man suit, and then onto the ceiling again. He moves in terrifying, erratic bursts, until finally ending up standing in front of Tony, who _is soon going to enter a goddamn panic attack if he doesn’t find out why his kid has turned into a fucking walking toy dog._

_“And?”_ he urges Peter on, and some of his worry and anxiousness must’ve bled into his voice, since Peter’s eyes widen and he starts waving his hands — and doesn’t stop doing it, the movement is increasing and getting faster, until Tony thinks he _himself_ is going to pass out from just watching this unfurl. No, no, what is going _on_ with his kid?? 

“N-n-n-n-n-n-n-o!!” Peter says in a very helpful manner, not really helping his case. “I-i-i-it’s n-n-n-nothing b-b-b-b-bad!! B-b-but I-I w-w-was t-tiredanntheressffee.”

His last words come out in a blur; it seems that he’s either capable of stuttering the words out one by one in an excruciatingly slow manner, or then they come out so fast that there’s no hope in understanding any of it — because that is what’s happening right now.

Tony is considering _a seizure_ high on his list and feels like he’s not far from his own.

“Thrssyofeennidrankit,” Peter says in an inexplicable mess of words, and Tony dares to reach forward to put his hands on the kid’s shoulders. The small body under his touch is viciously trembling.

“Kid,” he says, barely holding back full-on panicking. “Slow _down,_ and tell me what’s going on.”

“I-I-I-I w-was t-t-tired s-s-s-so I-I d-d-drank y-y-your _c-c-c-c-coffee,”_ Peter vibrates with delight, and proceeds to literally bounce all over the room.

Tony presses the call button.

* * *

“We are getting rid of caffeine,” are the first words he says to the Avengers — sans Peter — that have gathered in the closest meeting room, most of them still in their pajamas. Natasha is sorting through a pack of Uno cards.

“We are _what?”_ Rhodey asks, leaning forward in his seat and staring at Tony like he’s gone mad. Tony isn’t sure whether he has or not. His kid is currently acting like a glitching computer game, he's nearly had at least three heart attacks in the span of fifteen minutes, his beard and tank top stink like moldy death, and it’s not even six in the morning yet. He thinks it’s entirely justified for him to act a little irrationally, for now.

“We are. Getting rid of caffeine,” he repeats, leaving no room for argument in his words.

Everyone stares at him in confused silence, until Sam lifts a hand.

“So. Why?” he asks, and Tony accepts it as a legitimate, proper question.

“Because Peter drank half a cup of my coffee leftovers, and is currently in a war against the bots, my blender, and Capri Sun.”

If anything, they just look more confused, which is fair and valid, because Tony is still recovering from having witnessed that, too.

“Capri Sun?” Rhodey finally says into the silence that makes Tony feel the crushing process of his body aging with every passing second. The words are accompanied with a subtle sniff in his direction. Tony closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself.

“Fruit punch,” he says in heavy response. There are slow nods around the table.

“I thought caffeine wouldn’t affect his metabolism,” Steve frowns, and Tony turns to him with a suffering stare.

“You get sugar highs,” he points out, to which everyone else except Steve nods agreeingly.

“Sugar highs aren’t a thing,” Bruce says, to which everyone else except Steve scoffs.

_“Who_ made _that_ study?” Bucky asks in his “stupid modern era things” voice, and when Bruce points at himself wordlessly Tony knows it’s time to veer the conversation back to the _important_ matters before it all escalates.

“In any case, his reaction to caffeine is _very_ real and _very_ intense, and I’m not looking at it any more than what’s needed. That is, not at all,” he says, and the others go back to frowning. The only person seemingly indifferent to the conversation is Natasha, who with a stone-like expression starts sorting the Uno cards into piles according to their numbers.

“Are we talking of getting rid of _all_ the caffeine?” asks Wanda, holding a Red Bull in her hand, staring at it with puffy eyes and a slightly fearful expression.

“Surely not _all_ of it,” Steve, the secret Coca Cola addict, says cautiously. To everyone’s palpable relief Tony shakes his head.

“No. Only coffee and energy drinks,” he aims a look at Wanda, who hunches in on herself and miserably clutches the Red Bull against her chest.

Then, Natasha speaks for the first time, throwing a bunch of plus fours on the table in what shouldn’t look as threatening as it does.

“I don’t know, Tony,” she says, turning a gaze on him that makes him remember her breakfast consists of four espressos drunk from a silver flask. “I’m sure it doesn’t require those kinds of measures.”

Tony opens his mouth to argue that this is in fact a code red, but just then the door bursts open. 

Peter blasts swinging in, in his full red-eyed, shaking glory. 

At his heels is, of course, a flying Roomba, playing the theme from _Jaws._

Tony's— Tony's _Roomba._ Tony’s ultra-modified, height of _all_ cleaning technology, Roomba. _Flying._ Tony's now flying Roomba, playing the _menacing shark theme._

Huh. Those features didn’t exist the last time Tony looked.

“H-h-h-h-hiiiii!!! I’m-m-m t-t-t-t-testing t-the R-R-Roooombahh—” the kid lands on the ceiling, then in a few seconds has manically scrawled to the other side of the room. From there he bounces against the presentation board, then onto the table, and with the Roomba chasing him wildly, he hurtles his way over the table and towards the door— only for his foot to slip on Natasha’s cards.

The whole room watches in silence as Peter crashes in a spectacular somersault, the cards soaring all across the air. The Roomba lets out a whirring noise that Tony identifies as “gotcha”, and starts flying straight towards the kid at full speed, suddenly whipping out an electric thing that _definitely didn’t exist the last time Tony looked._

Peter lets out an exhilarated shriek and bolts up from the table. In a flurry of webs and an electric hissing noise from the flying Roomba, both intruders are out of the room, leaving behind a couple of cards, gently floating back towards the table surface.

Natasha grabs the final card from the air in a deadly fast movement, staring at it expressionlessly. It’s silent in the room, the only sounds being something — or someone — getting electrocuted down in the corridor.

“We are getting rid of caffeine,” Tony says.

No one says anything.

Vision gently takes the Red Bull from Wanda’s hands.

* * *

“How can it get _that_ bad from one cup?” Steve frowns fifteen minutes later, once Tony’s had everyone sign an agreement on not bringing any caffeine stronger than 50 milligrams into the Compound. They’ve proceeded onto listing down now-illegal drinks and foods. It’s a depressingly long list, one that Tony can barely bear to look at.

“It was mine,” Tony says in a desolated voice, a blank look in his eyes as his gaze lingers on his favorite coffee brand that sits at the very top of the list with its perfect, punchy 700mg caffeine amount. A round of understanding “ahh”s echo in the room.

“Yeah, your cups are fatal,” Sam says, to which Tony doesn’t comment, since it is basically true. It’s just much less time-consuming to drink one proper shot a few times a day than to be continuously downing endless cups of coffee. There’s less need to pee, and it gives a pleasant buzz that’ll keep Tony running till the end of time, so if it at times makes his vision blur slightly? It’s a price he’s willing to pay.

“Tony,” Natasha says, sorting her now slightly disgruntled cards again, the movements of her hands a lot more lethal than before. “You do realize that from all of us, you’re the one that’s _deadly_ addicted to caffeine?”

Tony is quiet. Everyone stares at him.

“Maybe we’ll allow 60 milligrams,” he finally says, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. helpfully modifies the hologram list to include “red rose energy tea”, “Mello Yello zero”, and “dark chocolate”.

* * *

Peter collapses around 10am, and Tony, after having carried the kid’s body — that is still going through some slight tremors, even in sleep — sets to the actual task of destroying all caffeine in the house. It reminds him of when he got rid of all the alcohol a couple of years back, but this… this is… _so. Much. Harder._

“I can’t do this,” he says in an empty, grave voice, having planted his head against the fridge in agony while Steve, the gallant not-coffee-addict that he is, is taking down the contents of Tony’s coffee cupboard. It’s absolute torture, the smell of the sweet, sweet coffee grounds drilling into Tony’s nostrils in the most attractive, inviting, _tormenting_ way.

“You can,” Steve, the tower of positivity that he is, says. “I’ll help.”

Tony groans, whacking his head against the fridge a few times. He’s already aching for his morning cup, a light headache thrumming against his temples that is sure to develop into a full-blown migraine later in the day. And gee, he can _barely_ wait for the _tremors_ to start, but at least having fatigue and anxiety is nothing new, so he should be able to handle those. Except that usually when tired and anxious, he’ll go for a cup of coffee, so…

“I’m gonna have to find a new coping mechanism,” he mutters against an “I❤️NY” magnet. Steve hums, leaning further into the cupboard to reach the final packets of Tony’s literal life-juice.

“I can give you tips,” he says, and Tony reaches up to take the magnet down before clumsily throwing it in Cap’s general direction, not bothering to look whether it hit the mark or not. Judging by the lack of any sound, Steve’s caught it. 

Ugh. Tony just _can’t have_ nice things.

Steve’s hand appears in the line of his vision to casually stick the magnet back to the fridge around the level of Tony’s midsection before retreating.

Tony suppresses the childish urge to throw the magnet again, and instead concentrates on the discussion.

“No offence, but your coping mechanisms include punching Nazis, punching Nazis, and… what was it? Punching Nazis? Also punching bags if the bad, punchable men are not available.”

Steve opens a large refuse sack with one strong pull of his enormously muscled, long arms. Ridiculous. That would’ve taken Tony a lot more wrangling.

“That’s true,” Steve good-naturedly says in a conversational tone, then starts chucking the coffee packs into the sack without mercy. Tony whimpers. “But it’s so much _fun._ Here, put one in.”

Tony finally looks up, sees the counter empty save for one coffee packet held in Steve’s hand, offered to him. The refuse sack is gaping at him, and in its depths he can see all the beautiful, _gorgeous_ coffee, just waiting to be taken out of their packs and brewed into the sweet, sweet ambrosia… 

“I don’t like to be handed things,” he says as his first defense. It doesn’t work, and Steve raises an eyebrow at him, his face otherwise as stoic as ever.

“I’m too tired to lift it?” he tries next, but that doesn’t work either. Steve doesn’t waver, and so in the end Tony sees no other choice but to take the damn coffee pack and chuck it into the refuse sack as fast as possible. If he waited till Steve got bored, they’d still be here next week. The man is _insufferable_ sometimes.

The coffee disappears into the sack, and Steve pulls it closed faster than Tony can blink.

“There,” he says, sounding satisfied. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

“I will. Punch you,” Tony moans as he succumbs against the kitchen counter. Throwing the coffee away took all his power. It feels like he’s just thrown a baby into a garbage disposal.

“If it works as a coping method,” Steve says with a mean, pleased expression. “Now, to the next hide. This sack is better be full when Peter wakes up.”

Steve marches off, full of vigor and energy for the task, and Tony considers shooting him in the back. There. Problem solved.

_Do it for Peter,_ he thinks instead, starting to drag himself up by holding onto the counters to follow Steve into this godless mission. _Do it for the Capri Sun-less workshop walls._

He’s a goddamn genius. He was _born_ to handle things. He’ll handle this one too. He will _succeed_ and _thrive._

* * *

In approximately five hours’ time, Tony has been reduced into a trembling, pained mess on one of the couches, and Steve is sitting in the opposite armchair, holding court with what is now the fifth refuse sack, the other Avengers occasionally trailing in to drop all kinds of now-illegal caffeinated goods into it. Steve whipped them all up into order, gave them mission details while they stood for attention, and by the time he got to Tony’s quivering, pale form, he simply pushed him down on the couch with one, unfair finger.

“You stay here,” he said then, and here they still are, two hours later, while the others are scouring through the Compound like they’re looking for a bomb.

Tony is going to _skin_ the kid. He doesn’t care if Peter bathes in guilt (which he will), or gives him the Pleading Look (which he will). He will make the kid regret all the life choices that led him into the decision of chucking away his coffee. And another thing, _who does that?_ Okay, they are close, and fine, Tony doesn’t mind the kid stealing his food, Peter gets hungry so easily that Tony feels better just straight-up encouraging those thefts, but _coffee??_ Tony’s super strong, sometimes-hallucination-causing coffee?? His kid will _regret this._

Vision phases through the floor with what seems to be the gym's entire energy drink stash in his arms, drops all the cans into the sack that Steve holds open for him, and disappears without another word to obediently keep on destroying the one thing that makes Tony want to live. Et tu, Brute.

Steve looks at him then, his face resembling a stone wall. Tony meets his gaze with bloodshot eyes, and the eye contact holds for a couple of moments before Steve lets out a deep sigh and stands up to cross the space over to Tony.

“Here.” He stops in front of the couch, looming over him as a big, patriotic shadow, and offers his forearm. Tony squints at him with blurred eyes, his face twisted into a pained grimace that is not going away any time soon.

“What?”

“Give it a hit,” Steve says, nodding towards his arm. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Yeah. Punching you usually does,” Tony mumbles an agreement. 

Steve waits.

Tony stares at the arm, then lets out a sigh bordering desperation. Jesus _almighty._

“…I can’t _reach_ that far.”

Steve, with a patient but slightly amused smile, leans down so that Tony can swat him without having to lift his aching arm too much.

God, Peter is _dead._

* * *

“I’m so sorry—”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“So so sorry—”

“I know.”

“So so so so sorry, oh God, I’m so _sorry—”_

_“Kid.”_ Tony groans with his eyes closed, rubbing at his temples with still-shaking fingers. The headache just won’t go away. There’s a large clock constantly hovering in the back of his mind, looking a bit like the one F.R.I.D.A.Y. casts on the wall of his bedroom, counting away the minutes since Tony’s last caffeine intake. Currently it’s saying 17 hours, 26 minutes, and that? That is approximately twelve hours too much.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry _I’m sorry, I’ll clean it all up,_ oh my _God,_ I’m so _sorry_ Mr. Stark, _I don’t know what HAPPENED—”_

“Peter, I swear to God,” Tony cuts into the kid’s intensifying, terrified rambling with a harsh tone, “one more ‘sorry’ and you’ll be sorry you were _born.”_

Peter’s voice hitches, but instead of saying anything he continues vigorously scrubbing the floor where the Capri Sun has dried into a sticky, tangy surface. Tony knows he should’ve thought of cleaning it up a little earlier, but he was a little busy with other more pressing manners. Like trying to withhold himself from outright _killing_ Nat, who had gone through _his_ _bedroom_ while he was suffering in the lounge area, and who boldly destroyed his whole 6kg collection of authentic, _ethically_ produced _honest-to-God_ Kopi luwak. That— that coffee tends to cost about a _grand_ per kilo— not that _money_ is the issue, here. No. Just… the _nerve._

In any case, there were matters that stopped him from inventing a Capri Sun Cleaning-bot (C.S.C, otherwise known as “Counter-Stickiness Corroder”). And really, it's a good thing he didn't, since now Peter truly needs to carry the consequences of his actions.

“I don't even drink coffee. I don't even _like_ coffee. Wh-why— _why_ would I drink that coffee? I must’ve been like, possessed or something—”

Tony shuts his eyes and lets the kid's ramblings wash over him. God, he’s so mad. So unbelievably mad, but more towards himself for leaving the damn coffee down here in the first place, not having been able to foresee this. He’s _also_ mad at the whole no-caffeine business, _and_ he has a massive headache, so, yeah. He’s mad, alright. He’s not going to take it out on the kid, though. No, that’s something Howard would’ve done, and Tony’s way of handling all of... _life_ these days is pretty much “whatever Howard wouldn’t be doing”.

There’s a brief pause in Peter’s rambling, and that’s enough of a warning. He hears Peter take a deep breath, and...

“No,” Tony says. “No one has died in the workshop. No coffee addicted ghost would've possessed you in here.”

A beat, and then—

“Maybe it was _your_ spirit… maybe, maybe _you_ possessed me! Maybe you're such an integral part of the workshop that your spirit is constantly around…”

_“My_ spirit would've stayed off of the Capri Sun,” Tony says, giving a stink eye to the kid, and Peter resumes scrubbing the floor violently.

Tony lets his eyes close again, and resumes counting the caffeine-less minutes. 

* * *

In the evening, he calls May, who first laughs herself sick and then dials off with a wish of good luck. He then calls Pepper, who first listens quietly, then gives the mother of all sighs, and says in her dryest voice, _“if I’d known all it took to get you off caffeine was to use Peter, I would’ve done it ages ago”._ Then she gives him an efficient rundown of the meetings she’s been at, as well as a warning of the paperwork that will be in Tony’s future once she gets back, and wishes him good luck.

Cruel, cruel women.

* * *

The next morning, Tony drags himself into the kitchen with stiff legs and bleary eyes. There’s pain, pain everywhere, and nothing can help him. He should’ve kept a packet for himself, in the same safe that contains some of the most secret, dangerous blueprints known to man. Only Tony and F.R.I.D.A.Y. can open that safe, and nothing can get in there. Tony’s built it to withstand a direct hit from a nuclear bomb. If the earth was to explode, the only thing remaining would be Tony’s safe, floating in space for the rest of eternity.

It would’ve been the perfect place to hide some coffee. Any coffee. Tony would even go for energy drinks right now.

God, why didn’t he hide away his Kopi luwak when he still had it? Why??

(He’s pretty sure Nat can still get into the safe. Somehow. That woman has a pact with the fucking devil.)

There’s a mug full of something brown and steaming on the kitchen counter, and Tony’s gaze zooms into it like a DECam on far-away galaxies. It’s Tony’s mug, and he’s just about to do something embarrassing, like dive forward and down the contents of the mug without further questioning it, when someone speaks up.

“It’s tea.”

Tony blinks, his super-hyper focused vision disappearing, and he takes in the rest of the kitchen; Nat is sitting at the kitchen counter, holding a mug of her own. Tony distantly remarks that she looks a little off-kilter. So. Tony’s not the only one suffering from the coffee ban.

“Tea,” he repeats, like an idiot, but it’s only because he needs his brain rebooted every morning — which usually happens with coffee. Damn.

“We all had mugs waiting for us,” Nat says idly, her eyes sharp on Tony despite them looking a little puffy.

“Rogers?” Tony asks simply, before words are painful, and starts making his way towards the mug. Nat shakes her head.

Tony’s just about to enquire who left it then, when there’s a commotion from the stairs leading up into the common area, and soon enough Steve, Sam and Bucky appear. All of them are covered in sweat, presumably from their morning run, and Steve is lugging along a large bottle of Coca Cola.

“...Just sayin’,” Sam is saying, “you wouldn’t be able to understand. You’re supersoldiers, you wouldn’t feel the lack of it.”

“I’m feeling it just _fine,”_ Bucky says, sounding gruffer than usual. “Just ‘cos I’m a supersoldier doesn’t mean I can’t feel nauseous.”

“Not to the extent of us normal folk, though. Besides, Steve doesn’t even drink enough to feel remotely _anything,”_ Sam says, and catches Tony’s eye. They exchange a look that says it all: this sucks, and Steve sucks _the most._

“Morning, Tony,” Steve says in response, his grin is brighter than the sun, and Tony quite yearns to throw his tea mug at the man’s face. “How are you feeling?”

“Not dead, if that’s what you were wondering,” Tony bites back, only a little bitter at the fact that Steve gets to keep his sweet intake of caffeine, and also wouldn’t feel the consequences even if he were to leave Coca Cola out of his diet. He drinks it solely for the taste, and Tony _hates_ him.

“No, I have faith in you,” Steve says and breezes past them towards the fridge while uncapping his Coca Cola bottle and taking a swig.

Tony and Nat exchange a look this time, and Nat, too, looks like she’s ready to kill. If she makes a move, Tony will help her; he’s in too much pain to think of doing it on his own.

“The tea’s a good idea, though,” Bucky says, falling down onto one of the chairs surrounding the counter. “Thanks for that, Nat.”

“Oh, it wasn’t me,” Nat says, eyeing Bucky over the rim of her mug. There’s something in her gaze that tells Tony she _knows._ What, Tony doesn’t know, but… _she knows._ It’s an eerie feeling and he’s unfortunately faced with it pretty much every day.

“Hm. Who?” Bucky asks, and Nat just smiles. Right.

Tony drinks his tea, and thinks that it helps maybe a little. It doesn’t come remotely even close to filling his need for caffeine, but at least he’s not about to throw up anymore.

* * *

Throughout the day, Tony gets the feeling that he’s being followed. Whenever he looks around his shoulder, he can’t see anyone, but the feeling stays.

Also, his mug keeps appearing wherever he goes, always filled to the brim with black tea and milk, occasionally with a bar of dark chocolate resting next to it.

Huh. Weird.

* * *

“Did you know that Nat runs a black market for caffeine now?” Sam asks in the evening when he and Tony happen to be seeking an evening snack at the same time. Tony has been drinking so much tea that he thinks he’s bloating, which is an unattractive thought, and also probably unhealthy. He’s been wondering where Peter has disappeared to; he hasn’t seen a sign of the kid the whole day, but F.R.I.D.A.Y. assured him that “he’s around”. So, just hiding so that he wouldn’t have to face Tony’s utter wrath.

“She does what now?”

“Uhhuh,” Sam leans against the counter and starts peeling an orange. “The Compound workers pretty much pleaded for her to do something. They were going insane. She’s apparently already made nearly a grand today.”

“And she didn’t tell _me?”_

“Well, for starters,” Sam looks at him blankly, “we all think a little caffeine break actually does you some good.”

Tony narrows his eyes at him. That statement stinks on so many levels.

“So what you mean, is that Pepper has blackmailed you into keeping this up.”

Sam purses his lips.

“Maybe.”

Tony _is_ speechless for a second, there.

“Out _rageous._ Highest form of betrayal. Is the only person I can now trust F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

_“I do tell the occasional white lie, Boss, if it’s for the good of your health,”_ pipes up the deceptive A.I.. Who is not even a person, but who cares about that on this level of _betrayal??_

Tony throws up his hands and leaves the kitchen. At this point, the only person who hasn’t irked Tony’s wrath like this is _the kid,_ and _that_ says something. At least Peter’s... wrongdoings weren’t _intentional._

His head is pounding as he exits the kitchen, and he opts for sleeping in the workshop. Dum-E is looking at him sadly, wearing a matching cap with U that says, “B.A.D.” (Boisterously Atrocious Demeanor). He ignores the bots and lies down on his workshop couch, snuggling under a thin blanket that has at least three burn holes in it.

Who would’ve known that the thing that finally defeats the Invincible Iron Man is not some stupid alien monster, not even a supergenius villain, but a 16-year old, drugged on caffeine.

* * *

The next morning, Tony opts for skipping breakfast and going straight back to work. Pepper sent a firm text yesterday about the lack of caffeine not being an excuse for falling behind in his work (Demon Woman), and so Tony delves into the newest StarkPhone’s code with his head already pounding, feeling overall miserable.

Not having gotten his morning coffee stops him from getting into a real flow. He’s more aware of his surroundings and time moves slower than usual during work. He’s not missing Dum-E and U beeping cheerfully at each other while rolling a tennis ball between them on an empty tabletop (that they presumably cleaned by simply wiping everything on it off to the floor). There’s a gentle hum around him from the machinery in the workshop, and a soft clinking sound behind him that…

Wait. What was the last one.

Tony turns his head, and is met by a kid, _his_ kid in particular, hanging head-down from a single strand of web attached to the ceiling, hovering above one of the tables, stirring a… very familiar-looking cup of tea with an open carton of milk held in his other hand. Attached to his waist there’s an open fanny pack, and out of it peeks a couple of chocolate bars.

“Huh,” Tony says, because things _make sense now,_ and Peter’s eyes snap on him. An alarmed expression crosses his face and he flounders. And then, in an act that probably had a 100% possibility of happening, set by the fates... the kid drops the carton of milk.

“Oh no, _oh no—!”_ Peter has time to wail with horror before the carton hits the table, topples over, and Tony’s workshop floor is once again getting covered by fluids. Fiendish, smelly fluids.

“Oh God, oh no, I’m so sorry, _I’m so sorry,_ not again, ohGod _ohGod—”_ Peter drops to the floor before realising he’ll be landing into a growing puddle of milk, and in the ensuing twitchy leap half of the chocolate bars in the open fanny pack dribble out and scatter on the ground, splashing into the milk.

Tony watches. He crosses his arms. 

Peter flails and, with his socks sloshing with milk, scrambles back, crashes into another table and sends everything _there_ flying, and after that finally topples on the ground, slumps with a hitch-pitched moan, and remains lying there. 

He seems to be giving up. Tony can nearly see the life leaving the kid, small, sad wisps of it escaping into the air.

Tony thinks he should probably interfere, now.

“Morning, kid,” he says, a little cautiously, and gets a pitiful lament in response.

“I’m so sorry, God I’m so sorry, this is the worst, I’m so _sorry—”_

Tony sighs and gets up, minding the puddle of milk as he navigates around the hazard zone to Peter’s side.

“C’mon,” he says, kneeling down next to the admittedly pathetic sight. “Let’s get you changed out of those socks. I think I got some clean ones in the back.”

“I don’t deserve to grace the workshop with my presence,” Peter mumbles with his face against the floor, and Tony distantly remembers that a week ago he spilled deadly chemicals right in this exact spot. Of _course_ he cleaned them up. _But._

“Maybe,” he says breezily, tugging at Peter’s arm to stop the kid from breathing in the Potentially Deadly Floor. “C’mon, then.”

Peter gets up, his face the picture of misery. He looks up at Tony, his face red from shame and wet eyes huge as platters.

Tony shoots a glance towards the ceiling, trying to handle all the darn fatherly emotions that course through him at the sight. Damn it.

“I’m so _sorry,”_ Peter says again, voice wobbling. “I wanted to make it better. It’s all— it’s all my fault, I’m so—”

Tony gives him a stink eye, and Peter’s last “sorry” fades away. He ducks his head, his eyes fixating on his socks that are slowly creating a milk puddle where he stands.

Tony looks up at the ceiling again, prays for strength, and places both hands on Peter’s shoulders.

“Listen, kid,” he starts, “I’m not mad.”

“You’re… you’re not mad,” Peter repeats, then peers up at him with a more or less desperate expression.

“I mean, this could’ve gone better for sure—” Tony looks back at the sea of milk and the chocolate bars that are happily swimming in it, “—but all things considered, as an apology, I’ll give you a solid seven out of ten. Hm. Maybe six, considering.”

Peter looks like he wants to cry, and nope, Tony’s _not_ doing _that._

“Eight out of ten, final offer,” he says and Peter’s lip starts to wobble. “Nine out of ten. No, stop it, kid,” Tony snaps his fingers and points at the kid, who’s now starting to look suspiciously like he’s holding back a smile. “Now you’re just screwing with me. Get to the back, change those socks.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter says in a tight voice, the rascal definitely trying not to laugh. Tony glares at him, and the kid ducks his head again — this time with a smile — and pads away, his every step making a loud “splat” sound.

Tony gives himself a mental pat on the back for A+ parenting (at least by his standards), and turns towards the milk hazard. Dum-E has already managed to roll over and wheel himself through the puddle, and is now beeping sadly at the milk trail he’s left behind. There’s a chocolate bar stuck to one of his wheels, preventing him from moving further.

Tony wonders whether he should next confiscate milk. What use does one have for it anyway? He drinks his coffee black, and milk makes tea a little icky anyway. So milk can go.

There, easy. They don’t call him a genius for nothing.

He rolls up his sleeves and starts searching for a rag. 

* * *

Tony and Peter spend the rest of the day building C.S.C. (the Capri Sun Cleaning-bot (or: “the Counter-Stickiness Corroder”, patent bending)), to replace the Roomba that Tony has declared unusable for cleaning. Torture, maybe, but you don’t get rid of dust that way. One of the new bot’s features consists of always choosing the safest spot to store itself, and its self-preservation skills are top notch. Even if the whole workshop was to explode, C.S.C. would make it out and be ready to clean the whole place.

(They _might_ be going a little overboard, but hey: it’s fun, and not everyone has a cleaning bot made out of vibranium. Or one that can technically survive a nuclear explosion. So in the grand scheme of things, they win.)

_(And,_ if one was to go further, now Tony has an indestructible cleaning bot to clean his indestructible safe that would _also_ survive said explosion. He does like it when there’s a harmony in place.)

Peter chatters away as usual. He seems to be brimming with it, which is understandable: after all, he hasn’t really spoken to anyone after the whole caffeine-incident. Every now and then, like clockwork, he’ll offer Tony a dark chocolate bar which otherwise would be fine, but Tony _is_ slightly cautious about his possible future diabetes if this goes on for long.

(Obviously he has the option of _not_ eating the chocolate, but… Only an idiot would refuse a free offer of chocolate, and Tony’s one of the most intelligent men on Earth, _so...)_

“—And uh, I also accidentally found Ms. Romanoff’s black market stash of coffee, when I was searching for, uh, escaping routes to, um, escape you,” Peter says, and Tony freezes in horror before shaking himself mentally and bringing forth his impressive logical deduction skills. Peter is _fine._ Everything’s fine— knowing the kid, his remorse over his actions with Tony’s coffee will keep him away from caffeine for a long, long time. Tony hopes. Prays for it with his whole heart, in fact.

“Hm,” Tony says, peering at the code he’s writing for C.S.C. while he out of habit reaches for his coffee mug… that isn’t there.

He gives a betrayed look at the empty spot on the table, and then another one at Peter, just for the sake of it. The kid abandons the bot’s frame he’s been delving into in the favor of wringing his hands and looking at Tony pleadingly.

“And um, she found me there which like, had the potential to be a really bad afternoon for me, but uh, after I explained things she didn’t mind, and she also, um. She said she can allow me to bring you three cups of coffee per day. Behind Ms. Potts’ back, that is.”

Tony abandons the code and swirls his head around to look at Peter, an incredulous frown plastered on his face.

“She _what?”_

“Um, she says it’s fine, ‘cos she’s feeling sorry for you, and also knows I won’t, uh, drink it anymore. Actually ever,” Peter shudders. “I’m _so_ over coffee.”

They stare at each other for a moment, Peter looking a little helpless, before Tony turns back to the code with a slow shake of his head. There’s… there’s so much to unpack in all of that. Also, now that the existence of Nat’s dark side-business has been confirmed, just having the kid in the same _building_ as a _black market for coffee_ makes him tremble with fear. 

He doesn’t think there’s much he can do about it though. Nat is _that_ good at being absolutely, absolutely terrible.

“So what would be the deal?” he asks, a little — scratch that, _very_ — cautious. He senses rather than sees Peter fidgeting.

“Um, I, uh, gotta, she wants to, she, er, she wants to loan the flying Roomba every now and then? She says it’ll be perfect for, um… _‘friendly outings’??”_

Okay, so, nope. Tony doesn’t really want to know. He looks at the kid sharply, who shrugs wearing an expression Tony usually associates with lost toddlers.

“If it helps,” Peter says, and Tony already knows nothing that would come out of the kid’s mouth will do anything to help the situation, “she says she can deliver it straight to you, so that I don’t ever see a bean.”

Okay, that helps _a bit._

“Am I the only one in the Compound not having had their daily coffee yet?” he asks, just because he has to know, and deep down he’s a masochist. Peter hesitates before giving a remorseful nod. Tony is swallowed by desolate feelings that _suck._

“I saw Sam and Bucky secretly mixing some into Steve’s coke, too. For, er, for— for revenge?”

Tony nods. Good news. At last something fair and just happening on the Compound grounds.

“Okay,” he says then. Peter looks hopeful. “Okay, you can loan your mean robot to the mean lady, and hang around in the workshop even if there’s coffee present. Under one condition.”

Peter nods vigorously, leaning forward. He seems to be ready to do anything in order to really be in Tony’s good books again. 

(Fool. He already is.)

Tony suppresses an urge to mess up his hair in the most dad-ish way ever. God, in the end the kid has him wrapped around his finger, and Tony wouldn’t have it any other way.

“In fact, two conditions. One, you don’t touch the coffee. You don’t look at it. As far as you’re concerned caffeine doesn’t exist. Two, the others are a bunch of traitors. So we’re avenging… we’re avenging my _trust_ in them. Is there still some Capri Sun left? Good. F.R.I.D.A.Y., you’re in this now too. I need two lab suits, chemical proofed ones. Kid, get my blender, chop chop. Let’s... tweak it _up_ a little.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tony voice: Now _that_ 'll be a Fruit punch.
> 
> (this line was considered as the final one but deemed too pun-ish to be put in. it however lives in my brain now)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, thanks a ton for reading! Please tell me what you thought!! 😊🤗 (you can also comment in French or Finnish if you like!)


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